The Way of Memory

Snow--the confetti at the end of a parade--
piles up on the snow just shoveled
I measure inches on banisters, a sign
in the front yard, and a whirligig
that stilled by snow stands as a yardstick
Today steps turn into slides
and trees wear white nightgowns
I look out the window and recall the taste
of snow--not sweet or bitter-- short lived,
only savored once before it dissolves